Laughter
by TheNooby
Summary: Ever notice how Cyrus has wrinkles on both sides of his face?     Or how he never really moves his mouth?     Or what his grandfather said about being to late to help him?   Now with a sequel.
1. Laughter

**LAUGHTER**  
><em>A fanfic by The_Noob<br>_  
>Route 228. April 30th, 1989.<p>

Cyrus Akagi, 8-years-old, stepped off his mother's Honchkrow, with a bland look on his face and an even blander white polo shirt and pair of khaki shorts adorning his body.

His parents liked him to be as proper as possible, and even made him comb his light blue hair into neat little spikes, like his father. They expected nothing but the best from him in every aspect.

If not, there would be severe consequences. Thinking about this, the little boy instinctively touched his cheek.

"Gul," The little boy commanded, unfaltering, with a sweeping hand gesture. Honchkrow nodded knowingly, tipped his 'hat' and flew off. The bird wanted nothing to do with the light rain of ash that flooded the area.

Cyrus repeated the motion to make sure he did it just as his mother would. What would she say if she found out he got it wrong? He gritted his teeth at the thought of their dissapointment, their shame, their anger. All those little chemical reactions that ruined lives.

He wished he could simply get rid of them.

With a tap on the shoulder, he jumped, spinning in the air, and landed on his butt, getting the back end of his khakis turned dark grey.

"Hey kid, don't zone out like that! Wouldn't wanna get your toosh colored charcoal again, would ya?" Cyrus recognized his grandfather's voice, aged and rough, yet full of silliness. He couldn't see the old man clearly, his eyes were full of surprised tears. Cyrus mentally slapped himself for his knee-jerk reactions.

"No, I wouldn't." The child murmured, with the proper Johtonan infliction his parents spoke with.

"Come on, kid, you don't have to use that fake accent like my tight-*** daughter," Cyrus' grandfather said as he extended a hand and helped him up, "Since you're here, we're going to have fun. But first, why don't you and I have something to eat! You look hungry enough after flying a day!"

Cyrus shook his head, "Mother and Father said that I am not to eat much. My grades have slipped from a 100-point-average to a 96-point-average."

"What's a sandwich going to do to your grades?" The old man jested. He stopped taking his daughter seriously a long time ago.

Cyrus smiled and snickered at this, like any child should.

And then came the ripping of stitches as the hidden scars on his cheeks opened up, and he started crying.

He thought himself so stupid to feel. He had never even told his closest friends, Volkner and Flint, about the scars; he pretended to have no sense of humor, just to let the scars heal. He touched the exposed bones of his mouth, and more of those silly tears flooded from his eyes and onto the ashen ground.

The old man rushed over to his grandson and embraced him.

"Who did this to you?" He asked angrily.

"Momma and Papa," The little boy sobbed. He felt so weak, the way he acted, his parents would have disowned him for something like this, "They had too much to drink one night and caught me laughing at how they were acting. And they, they told me this," He leaned into his grandfather's ear, letting his left cheek bleed onto it a little, "'You can never laugh again.' So I gave up *sniffle* feeling."

**THE END**


	2. Dark Pulse

**Dark Pulse**  
><em>A fanfic by<em>

_The_Noob_

Route 228. April 31st, 1989.

"No!" An old man was screaming into a corded telephone. His face showed many wrinkles, a couple scars. He hadn't aged well, and anger was only making it worse, "a thousand times no! I don't care if you're my daughter or you're rich enough to buy and sell me! You don't deserve custody of-" He paused for a moment and looked over to the child in the boring-looking shorts, who was remaining horribly stoic.

Stuttering a little, the old man went back to speaking, a little quieter, "You... You already have a... a... price on my head? Oh dear.. I take it back, Cyrus is yours. Just... just don't hurt him again."

He hung up, slamming the phone in the wall. His face scrunched up in regret, showing that he was practically about to cry. He swore under his breath in Ancient Sinnohan and sat in the wood seat next to the little boy.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you, Cyrus," He was choking back tears, "I wish I could take you in as my own, but... Oh, it's all my fault. I raised my daughter wrong and now it's come to bite my ass."

Cyrus stared blankly off into space, and didn't seem to want to reply. He knew it was his fault, and not his grandfather's, he desperately wanted to tell him, but the deep slashes in his cheeks made it hurt to speak.

He had done so well to appease Mother and Father. He had followed every rule they set in place, finished all of his classes highest out of the highest classes. He never let social or emotional things get in his way, even if it meant that he lost his only friends, Flint and Volkner. Even now, he was trying to eliminate his vice of playing with those little machines he was given for his fifth birthday.

But it would never be enough, because he was never good enough. But, where had he gone so wrong?

-  
>Sunnyshore City. June 9, 1985.<p>

"Graaw." Honchkrow growled, digging his claws into his trainer's shoulders at the sight of the young boy. He may have been a very large bird, but he was a light creature, easy to carry. The woman whose shoulder he was on swatted gently at him, "Gul," She said irascibly.

The little boy was in white underwear and socks, having just gotten out of the shower, waiting for his mother to find him a dress suit his size. The room was small, tiled with black marble and accented with large, white furniture. It also matched the blue hair that all the family had, whether it was dyed or natural. Above the massive white bed with tidy blue sheets was the Akagi Industries logo of the vicious Honchkrow, an apex predator of the patriarch's native land of Johto. Its most terrible ability was that of controlling large flocks smaller Murkrow through its powerful pheromones; and the productive manner in which it killed set the standard for the Akagi family's philosophy.

Cyrus sat on the bed, his hair combed into little blue spikes, like his father's, and stared quizzically at Honchkrow, who glared angrily at him. "Mommy," he said, still fixated on the angry bird, "you gotta hurry up, or daddy will be mad."

"Your father has a very short temper, Cyrus, you know that," The woman on which Honchkrow rested said gently, as only a mother could, "just be patient and let me find you something to wear. This is a very important party for him. And don't be worried if he hits me in the face again," Her tone became more indicative of badly hidden bitterness, "He needs to relieve stress sometimes. If only he loved me as much as that damned bird."

Cyrus' mother was often just as tight and snobbish as her husband. This was just a show she put on to make herself the man's trophy wife in front of the strange Johtonans, who were apparently turned on by foreigners acting just as high-and-mighty as they did.

Honchkrow glared at Cyrus again, and flew off the woman's shoulders, and out of the room.

"Thank Arceus that nasty thing got off of me," She said, "it stinks so bad. I hear that's how they control their little minions. The Champion's Frosslass can actually make Pokemon shit themselves and go nuts from fear by spraying it at them, it stinks so bad."

Cyrus giggled a bit, and not soon after his mother found the clothing she was looking for, which she lay on the bed and motioned for

"Thank you, mommy," He said. With that, his mother hit him with great force on the temple, knocking him out cold.

When he came to, he was in the dark little bathroom, which had a reverse color scheme of the bedroom, and a delightful set of portraits of Johto's natural and manmade landmarks. He had been stripped nude, and his parents stood over him, and his mother had a knife in her hand.

Honchkrow stood on his true master, Cyrus' father's shoulder, glaring at the little boy vexingly as his parents attacked him. He had hated the child since birth, knowing it would soon try and replace him as the object of his master's favor. To make sure this would never happen, he did the unthinkable - he subjected them to the powers of Dark Pulse, which most Honchkrows do to quiet rebellion among the unintellegent Murkrows they would control.

The only rebellion he needed to calm among his master's house was that of the child's power. If all went according to plan, then he would scar the child forever, and, perhaps, alter his master's mind. No matter what he did, he would never amount to anything in his parent's eyes.

Of course, tonight, his master and his master's mate would be his minions, toys to his indomnitable will. As he heard a few words be muttered in the odd human language, he knew he had made the mark.

Honchkrow jumped off of his master's shoulders and down to the wounded human boy, who was trying not to move his head, in fear that the gaping wounds in his mouth would become worse. The bird tipped his 'hat' with one wing, and raised his other to bid his new little minions away. Had he harmed careful negotiations? Yes. Was his master still more than rich enough to not even care about this? Of course. Honchkrow was a smart creature, he would find a way to make this seem like it had never happened.

He walked over to the child and raised his head, so that their eyes would meet, using his large wing. The long black tip-feathers acted like human fingers, which made the job much easier. With a fell swoop of his talons, Honchkrow rended the child's genitalia from his body, fully ensuring that he would never become truly powerful.

As Honchkrow left the bathroom, he mockingly winked, opening the door to a brave new world. 

**END**


End file.
